Eagle bay, p.28
Eagle Bay, page 28
“Let them go!” Emma screamed. She feared Thomas would kill them all despite any information provided.
“No more delays. Tell me now, or I’ll shoot new mommy in the head, then Sarah, and then you, Mom.” He gazed into each of their eyes. “I’ll save my wife for the encore.”
“I’m not your wife, you sick bastard! You’ve taken too much from us! You’re a psychopath! A weak and heartless man!”
He lifted his pistol barrel to Dakota’s limp body. “Say goodnight to your sleeping little princess.”
Johnny stepped from behind the hay truck with Skye’s reloaded Ruger drawn. His extended arms kept his target in sight. The criminals could scarcely internalize the image of a teenager bearing down on them with the demeanor of a trained assassin. Johnny’s first shot from the Ruger ripped a hole through Antonio’s right shoulder; he collapsed to the ground, squealing in pain.
Still armed, Antonio fired back at Johnny from the floor, nicking his hand and knocking the weapon under the trailer stacked with hay. Johnny knew retrieving the gun was the only way to save his family; failure meant death. He never got the chance. The teenager froze and stared into another shooter’s eyes, a man he once called dad.
Pop! Pop! Pop! The shots rang out from the shadows in a corner of the barn. Two bullets entered the back of another Argentine, blasting a hole through his heart. Two of the four assailants now lay dead, leaving just the ailing Antonio and armed Thomas. The third shot from the unknown gunman flew past Thomas’s head, and he scurried behind the hay truck, assessing the situation and searching for the shooter.
Diego, the loyal vaquero who’d been exiled and threatened by Thomas years earlier, was the hidden triggerman. Having stumbled upon the chaos after a day toiling around the McCloud’s property, the quiet man had rushed to his pickup to grab a gun he’d owned for twelve years but never fired at a living thing. Diego snapped off two more shots through a corner of the hay stacked upon the flat trailer, hoping to strike Thomas with a crippling blow.
A minute passed. As the victims wondered if Thomas had perhaps fled, his arm extended from around the trailer. Diego squeezed his trigger and sent two more shots in the direction of a man he considered biblically wicked.
While Thomas took cover amidst Diego’s assault, Johnny used a knife to slice through the ropes restraining Skye, and she grabbed one of the dead men’s Beretta semi-automatic handguns. Then she, Diego, and Johnny scampered behind farm equipment.
“I’ve got to untie Sarah and the others. They’re sitting ducks,” Johnny said to his mother and her farmhand. “Cover me.”
Diego whispered, “No, not yet. I can’t see Mr. Thomas.”
“I’ll untie them,” Skye said. “You stay with Diego.”
Too late. Johnny rushed toward the three bound women. Dakota remained unconscious. Sarah still had her finger but expected Thomas to step forward any second and shoot them all. Emma’s eyes darted about the barn.
“Leave me, Johnny!” Emma demanded. “Protect yourself. Help your mother.”
But Skye and Diego arrived just steps behind Johnny and the bound women. Each of them understood Thomas could be anywhere, aiming at their heads. Skye and Diego sporadically fired rounds toward Thomas’s likely positions.
Thomas had circled the trailer and now stood undetected behind them. “I killed your father, Johnny. It’s time to kill you,” he said after stepping from one side of the diesel cab connected to the trailer. Diego and Skye would have to pivot around and shoot him before he killed the teenager.
Pop! Thomas’s shot whizzed past Skye’s head, striking Johnny in his shoulder joint. An expert marksman, he questioned why he hadn’t killed his adopted son as he’d threatened to do. With Johnny agonizing on the ground, Thomas shifted his aim between Diego and Skye, then at Johnny’s head, preparing to finish him off. But once again, he hesitated.
Antonio tried to cover Thomas but was too slow to lift his handgun because of injuries, giving Diego time to kick him in the head and yank the Argentine’s weapon away. The McCloud’s loyal vaquero turned around to find Skye frozen in a shooting position.
Pop! Skye pulled her trigger. A bullet struck Thomas in the chest, exiting his back and thrusting him to the ground. She ran and stood over him, glowering, before grabbing his Sig Sauer and tucking it inside her waistband. She told Diego to guard Thomas and rushed to Johnny’s side.
The farmhand stared down disgustedly at the powerful man who’d once threatened to kill him. He believed Thomas would survive, so he pointed his barrel at his heart, wordlessly demanding compliance.
Lying on the dirty wooden floor, Thomas peered up. “You . . . you,” he said with scorn.
The ranch hand bent down, their faces nearly touching. “Yes, it is me, Diego. It has been ten years, Mr. Thomas. You are what my American friends call a sick sonofabitch. I call you el mal gringo.” Thinking back to their intense exchange years earlier, he added, “You comprende?”
“Shoot him again!” Emma screamed at Diego, a man she’d never met. “Please. He’s wicked and capable.”
Diego looked to Skye, who remained preoccupied. She’d already torn Johnny’s shirt open to inspect his injury. “Untie the women, Diego,” Skye yelled. “Call 911. Keep an eye on Thomas. If he moves, kill him.” She stroked Johnny’s head, feeling confident he’d survive after inspecting the wound.
Emma untied Dakota and slapped her back into the moment. “We need to get inside, Dakota. Show me where your medical supplies are kept.”
Dakota scanned dead bodies and a bleeding Johnny. “Oh my God! Johnny! Mom, don’t let him die!”
“Dakota, now!” Emma yelled. “We need clean towels, gauze, and a tourniquet. Show me the way.”
Dakota grabbed Emma’s hand to lead her and Sarah inside. After pointing to the laundry room and medicine cabinets, Dakota ran to check on Henry, who was red and shrieking but otherwise fine.
Thomas and Antonio were still very much alive. The scene remained tense. Thomas turned his head to Johnny. “You win, thanks to your favorite Mexican.”
“Listen to you,” Skye said as she applied pressure to Johnny’s shattered bone. “So despicable. I hope you die.”
“But I won’t, Skye,” Thomas strained to say. “How’s my son doing?” He nodded in Johnny’s direction.
“I’m not your son, you freak,” Johnny said, struggling to overcome his pain. “You killed my dad. Tried to torture your sister.”
Skye thought Johnny appeared to be in shock. In a soft voice, she told him, “Stop talking. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
Sirens blared in the valley below. Thomas glanced at every actor in the drama before locking onto Skye. “You McClouds, always so goddamn noble.” He added, “No matter. Dead father like dying son.”
Skye halted and stared outside through open barn doors. She picked up her pistol, walked over to Thomas, and aimed steadily at his heart.
Barely able to speak through the pain, Johnny said, “No, Mom. Don’t. Please don’t.”
Skye studied Johnny for seconds without expression. Memories and concerns flashed through her mind, similar to when people anticipate catastrophe. Resigned to her decision, she stood over Thomas’s head and glared into striking blue eyes. “Burn in hell.” She extended her arm with a tight grip on the gun and pulled the trigger. Click. There were no more bullets. She tossed the weapon aside, grabbed Thomas’s Sig Sauer still tucked in the waist of her jeans, and readied her aim a second time.
Johnny nearly passed out but uttered, “No, Mom . . . Please.”
“Stop! Drop your weapons, or I’ll kill your son.” Antonio glanced at Skye but kept his barrel trained on Johnny. The Argentine had been toting a second gun, a .36 caliber pistol holstered above his ankle. He stood hunched over, blood drenching his clothing, one arm dangling.
Skye froze. Her finger twitched against the handgun’s trigger. Years of deceit and wickedness filled her head, but her family’s survival was all that mattered.
“Drop them. Now! Both of you,” commanded Antonio a second time. Diego remained close by with his gun pointed at Thomas’s head.
Skye and Diego glanced at each other. The protective mother felt trapped and said, “Do as he says.” They set their weapons on the floor, hoping they wouldn’t all get killed regardless.
The cacophony of sirens grew louder.
Blood poured from Thomas’s chest, but he was able to stand. “You should’ve killed me, Skye.” He bent over to pick up the loaded pistol Skye had placed on the ground. “I’ve temporarily lost the assets, but you’re about to lose John’s son permanently.” He peered into Johnny’s eyes. “I’m sorry. This is it, Johnny. I know you could never understand, but I’m simply wicked and can no longer rein it in.”
Antonio fired a shot at Thomas’s feet, causing him to straighten up and glare at his partner. “What the hell are you doing?”
“The police are almost here. I’m too injured to drive, and we must flee—now.” Antonio aimed the gun back at Johnny to freeze Skye and Diego while speaking to his boss. “I am saving us both. Let’s go.” Antonio silently questioned how Thomas could contemplate killing his son.
Thomas glared as he reached into his jacket, grabbed his keys, and limped toward his car. He twisted around. “This isn’t over, Skye. Pass that on to Emma and Sarah.”
“How can you live with yourself?”
“I can’t. This is what happens to men like me.”
Antonio shifted his aim between Skye and Diego, commanding them to move back. He grimaced in pain while bending to pick up Diego’s weapon. Moments later, the armed assailants sped away in Thomas’s Jag.
Skye tended to Johnny, who lay with a contorted face expressing agony. How could he not, Skye thought to herself—the father he once loved and respected just shot and threatened to kill him. Emma reentered the barn with medical supplies as the police arrived at the property. Paramedics rolled Johnny into the first ambulance on the scene.
Chapter:
54
Thomas’s murders today and years prior, and his brutal accosting in the McCloud’s barn, resulted in a sweeping manhunt.
Sheriff Boseman sat in an SUV off an old lumber mill route in the coastal hills south of Yachats. Over an untraceable line, the sheriff proclaimed that this favor for Thomas was to be his last. He wanted out.
“Careful not to cut off the hand that feeds you, Sheriff. I’d advise you to employ a more measured tone. You’ve been paid very well for your services, but now the house of cards is falling. You may need me.” Thomas recognized that the crooked cop didn’t possess the mental faculties required to protect himself from the torrent of charges he’d soon face. So be it. He killed the line.
Antonio said, “So, the American physician will fly with us to Buenos Aires, sí? ” He turned his head and tried to flash a slight grin.
Thomas had grudgingly accepted that Antonio’s ultimatum to flee was prudent. “I’d smile but driving with a bullet hole in my rib cage is uncomfortable. Though, it’s a pain that exhilarates. When the final chapter gets written, we’ll be living luxuriant lives, my friend.”
Antonio nodded, reflecting that Thomas had never before called him a friend. He asked, “What is the range of our plane?”
“Forty-five hundred miles. We’ll refuel in Bogotá. Everything’s confirmed.” Thomas arranged for a Gulfstream G3 jet to be prepped for immediate departure from Southwest Regional Airport in North Bend. Six large, heavy wooden crates were loaded into the aircraft’s belly. He pondered the fortunate reality that people with money could synchronize complex activities on short notice, with few or no questions asked.
Yes, money meant power. But the sway associated with being a business icon and pretend humanitarian would soon be a fading contemplation. Possession of the Westbrooke dynasty’s great secret would be his ultimate gratification. His reward for a lifetime of perverted loyalty. It was time to reclaim the prize stolen from his father’s vault.
Dr. Stan Braswell sat aboard the jet as Thomas and Antonio entered the hangar. $200,000 had been delivered to the surgeon’s home inside a leather briefcase thirty minutes earlier. He understood he would attend to medical emergencies while flying to Buenos Aires. Hours after arriving in Argentina, the same plane would shuttle him back to Oregon.
The pilot, Frank Washington, was ex-CIA; he was well-versed in the world of covert operations. He asked no questions and would behave obliviously in return for insanely good pay.
Thomas dropped Antonio off at the steps leading into the jet before driving to the small terminal he’d walked through many times during his life. With his bleeding slowed, he stopped to purchase drinks and snacks, even though he knew the Gulfstream had already been well-stocked. The intimidated cashier stared uneasily at his injuries, put his goods into a plastic bag, and received a wink from the wounded stranger. The young man watched Thomas drive off in the SUV; he was now a witness.
It was a dark evening along the Oregon Coast. A shroud of mist moved through the airport, and Thomas flicked the truck’s wipers. Entering the hangar, he rechecked the cargo bay and its large containers. They appeared to have gotten loaded precisely as instructed.
Rounding the tail section of the Gulfstream jet and ducking his head for clearance, Thomas caught three minutes of Antonio’s hurried cell phone conversation spoken in a Sicilian dialect. When Thomas entered the plane, the Argentine concealed his phone. Thomas noted Antonio’s condition appeared much improved since leaving the McCloud’s barn. Minutes later, Dr. Braswell sterilized Antonio’s wounds, sutured him up, and directed him to swallow six white pills with water.
Thomas had important matters to attend to. He asked the doctor for privacy, and the confused physician moved to the back of the plane. Thomas commented on the cool and damp weather, saying it should be better in Buenos Aires. He noted in Sicilian, “You never told me you spoke Sicilian, Antonio.”
Antonio shrugged and said nothing.
Thomas discerned a touch of unease. “I’m intrigued. I’ve known you for years without fully appreciating your linguistic skills,” Thomas said. “Your knowledge of our asset management systems, coupled with your impeccable Sicilian, would make you a valuable resource to many.”
Antonio didn’t flinch.
“Are you aware that my most trusted European confidante is Sicilian? Manages Westbrooke affairs on the continent. Lives in Palermo and goes by Luigi Bucaso. Perhaps Robert had mentioned him to you?”
Still no reaction.
“A principled man. Non-violent. Prefers others to do the unpleasant things—like kill people.”
Antonio replied in English. “Mr. Westbrooke, we are both exhausted. Lucky to be breathing. Yet you have the energy to question my allegiance to you? I am not offended, only disappointed. I have Italian and Spanish heritage, so it makes sense that I speak both languages well.”
“But you speak a rarer regional Sicilian. It’s not important, of course. But you are a man of startling dimension, Antonio.” His mind in constant motion, the Pillar on the Run had concluded there were now two viable masterminds, or pawns, regarding Robert’s assassination. Emma, the lucid matriarch who may have struck back against her deceiving husband, a man responsible for twenty-five years of her mental incarceration, and Antonio Salazar, a despised yet heretofore necessary and trusted co-conspirator, a traitor to Robert Westbrooke, and a man whose own desires for the assets may have pushed him to engage in another round of double-crossing by aligning with Thomas’s associate, Luigi Bucaso. Did Antonio or Luigi now possess the A1 assets? Thomas would spend the coming days solving that mystery.
Staring at the Argentine, he said, “You’ve always been loyal, Antonio. I value that. Let’s complete the transfer of A2 through A4. You’re confident the men making the exchanges are the only ones aware of the plan?”
Antonio visibly relaxed. “Sí, Mr. Westbrooke, that is correct. Plus me, plus you.”
Thomas doubted that, but he had a workaround. “Okay then, let’s get this done, amigo.”
“Sí, Mr. Westbrooke.”
Over the next few minutes, Antonio called Buenos Aires, and Thomas connected with individuals in Geneva and Lyon. They instructed three different men on the outskirts of each city to rendezvous with three strangers and to transfer cargo from one SUV to the other. Each of the three vehicles driven away would hold a single metal container in its rear compartment, measuring seven feet in length, four feet in width, and thirty inches in height.
Antonio was unaware that the three men driving the heavily laden SUVs from the exchange points had previously been assigned one final task by Thomas: Put bullets into the heads of the other three men.
So, the foreign assets were about to be controlled by Thomas’s new cadre of associates. Antonio had no connections to the men securing the bounty, making him expendable.
Thomas valued the A2-A4 assets at about $140,000,000, though he’d never sell them. Added to the $10,000,000 transfer executed by the WCI controller hours earlier, the soon-to-be felon was worth approximately $150,000,000 in untraceable wealth. The valuation wasn’t critical to him, but possession of Inca history was. With the authorities in hot pursuit and with nefarious families unexpectedly removed from the seventy-year-old financial model they’d benefited from, Thomas realized his primary challenges moving forward would be to remain invisible and alive.
Thomas called Dr. Braswell back. The surgeon confirmed that the bullet entered and exited Thomas without hitting vital organs and arteries. Still, as he cleaned and sterilized the flesh and tissue surrounding the 9mm round’s entry and exit points, he told himself his patient was lucky to be alive.
